The Legend of the HuntsMan
by drawingdisaster
Summary: What if the Arcs weren't famous for being heroes and defenders of the weak? What if they were treading on gray moral ground instead? A short exploration of the concept. AU one shot.


A trail of dust lifted over the horizon as the caravan trekked between mounds of yellow sand. Most of the blurry figures were wrapped in cloaks and wore goggles to protect themselves from sudden sandstorms and the harsh glare of the midday sun. Various wares and everyday objects could be seen jiggling on the backs of the tired camels.

The merchants remained silent as they traversed the desert. Waterskins were passed from one denizen of Vacuo to the other, their eyes searching for signs of danger. Desert beasts were known to burrow under the shifting sands to ambush travelers and the occasional passing animal. The beasts would pounce at their quarries and tear into their flesh with clanking claws and screeching mandibles, shredding skin apart and cutting bone in mere seconds.

Through pain and tragedy the denizens of Vacuo had been taught to respect the desert and to always remain vigilant. Even merchants carried weapons in the harsh sunbeaten land of opportunity. Sturdy rods could be seen tied to the leather satchels of the travelers. The hilt of a poorly-concealed dagger could be found peeking out from between their smoldering clothes here and there.

Where the merchants hid small blades on their person, their hired help were brandishing the tools of their craft. The five guards of the caravan were hefting far more dangerous weapons than sticks and rods and pieces of dull metal. Shrouded almost entirely in white rags that covered their arms, hair and features, the desert warriors were armed with scimitars and spears, bucklers with sharp edges protruding from their round forms. The guards kept close to the merchants, surveying the sand dunes and the slant pillars of old temples that had crumbled long before the land had died completely.

Faded inscriptions could be seen carved into the lonely pillars that were embraced by the desert, their weathered surfaces and junctions accumulating dirt and ground stone as the wind wheezed secrets around them. The ancient inscriptions spoke of prosperity and crops flourishing with life yet the ruins were as damaged and gloomy as the world that surrounded them.

The gusts of hot air that blew against the covered faces of the caravan carried yellow particles over the nearly submerged shattered slabs that once paved the way to the olden temple. Pieces of cloth, worn ribbons in faded bright colors and wilted flowers were secured on top of the slabs via chunks of broken rock, left there by pilgrims that had visited the saddening ruins.

Cracked pottery and two painted stones had been set beside the tallest of the remaining pillars. Offerings so that the spirits of the dead could rest in peace, the gift of nomadic shepherds paying their respects to the monuments of their great ancestors.

Good luck charms left behind to ward off misfortune and prevent it from following a downtrodden merchant back home.

The travelers jolted in surprise when a person stepped out from behind the ancient pillar, a bared sword held in their hand. The guards quickly assumed defensive positions converging around the shouting merchants as more people started emerging from the ruins.

One, two, nine people garbed in long yellow traveling cloaks carrying antique muskets and crossbows separated from the remnants of Vacuo's former glory. The bodyguards' weapons glimmered under the hot sun, yet the warriors begrudgingly refrained from attacking the strangers, for they knew that doing so would only invite their deaths.

The merchants cursed upon recognizing the familiar symbol sewn into the clothes of the infamous bandits. Only one family of miscreants had the audacity to don cloaks with crescent moon insignias in the burning land that worshiped the unforgiving sun. Only one House of thieves and spies garnered so much respect and ire from the people of Vacuo in equal measure.

"Drop your weapons and nobody is going to get hurt," The leader of the Arc clan commanded with his back turned to the sacred pillar, "We will only be taking half of your merchandise and allow you to keep the rest of it. Do not test our generosity, or there _will_ be consequences."

A series of clicks echoed around the surrounded caravan at the mention of possible retaliation. The guards exchanged quick glances with their frowning employers, uncertain if they were supposed to endanger their lives for their measly treasures of tools, salt, spice and iron ore.

An arrow sinking into the sand beside a tanned merchant had both caravan guards and their employers twitching nervously. Although the outcome of the upcoming confrontation was already decided by the superior weaponry of the desert jackals the guards were reluctant to lower their weapons.

"Surrender now, and I can guarantee to you that you will live to see your loved ones again, resist and your bones will become food for the vultures." The cloaked man urged his prey to surrender.

Despite their unsavory occupation, the Arcs had a reputation of avoiding needless bloodshed whenever that was possible. Their strangely chivalrous ways in comparison to the brutal cutthroats of the Branwen Tribe and Cinder's vicious mercenaries had earned them the moniker _Knights of the desert_ by the people of Vacuo.

A lot of good people had the fortune to regret their past mistakes and reunite with their families after falling prey to the Arc bandits, something that seldomly occurred when other criminal groups were involved. Some elderly folk even whispered that the Arcs protected small settlements from the beasts that roamed the land so as to ensure that the villages would be wealthy enough to trade with the outside and their caravans would gradually become their future targets.

Nobody really knew if those stories were true, except perhaps from the members of the Arc House themselves, but one thing was certain. It was preferable to cooperate with the Arcs when given the choice, than to make them your enemies by defying them.

Bowing in agreement, the Head merchant gestured for the guards to comply with the demands of the bandit leader. Low murmurs of displeasure rose amidst the travelers as their weapons clattered on the ground, thudding against the slabs of the ruined temple. Angry scowls and muffled curses were directed to the armed strangers that gestured at them to move away from the camels while keeping their crossbows and muskets trained on them.

A less imposing desert jackal hastily broke away from the ranks of the bandits, approaching the camels with a sack. Unruly locks of blond hair escaped from under the boy's yellow hood as it started shoving things inside its sack with great urgency. The sheathed sword hanging from the belt on the boy's waist bumping against its hip with each hurried stride the bandit took darting from one camel to another.

Everybody in the ruins stood stock-still when the young bandit, while sprinting to rejoin the rest of his family, suddenly stepped on his untied shoelaces and proceeded to face-plant into the chest of a female guard that unwittingly made to steady him. The emerald eyes of the surprised caravan guard, visible over the mercenary's white garments, stared into the blond bandit's impossibly wide aquamarine orbs.

Jaune's cheeks flooded with color as he awkwardly coughed into his fist, thanking the mercenary in a meek tone of voice for catching him, his father's face-palm painfully audible behind him as his sisters snickered at his clumsiness.

Red-faced and a stuttering mess beneath his hood, Jaune extracted himself from the arms of the girl that apologized profusely for touching him without permission. A few merchants shot the female guard sideway glances that spoke of their discomfort, eliciting another string of apologies from the desert amazon, before her voice gave out due to her accumulating stress and her immense embarrassment.

The hooded boy then pulled two camels away from the caravan to the protests of the grumbling merchants.

The leader of the Arc clan mutedly gestured for the members of his family to allow the caravan passage after Jaune stood near the crumbling pillar beside his father. The Guards and merchants collected their weapons, continuing their silent journey through the golden hills of Vacuo under the scrutinizing gazes of the armed desert jackals.

Pyrrha spared a last glance at the boy in the yellow hood that waved at her awkwardly. Right next to him, the leader of the thieving clan was staring at his son with a raised eyebrow. The redhead averted her gaze, her grip on her spear and buckler tightening, the bitter taste of defeat lingering in her mouth.

_Concentrate on your job as a caravan escort,_ Pyrrha chastised herself. The closest town was still far away, hidden behind the mountains of sizzling sand. The soft-spoken mercenary suppressed her disappointment at failing her duty, her unprecedented anger at being bested without having the chance to prove herself. The reminiscence of the cloaked boy accidentally falling into her arms dusted the warrior's cheeks a faint pink color. Pyrrha's heartbeat accelerated like when she had to fight for coin in the arenas of the capital, facing captured lowlives and desert beasts in order to support her sick sister.

The sobering thought of her bedridden sister's weak smile before her departure brought Pyrrha back to reality, determination burning anew inside her chest. There was a purpose to her guarding caravans and venturing into the unknown. A justified reason for her joining this particular group of merchants that traveled towards the great city of Heaven with its royal bloodlines and secret sects.

Pyrrha wanted to find the HuntsMan, the legendary desert savant and mysterious hero of the people with the gift of healing. Rumors stated that he was taller than three men, graceful as a hawk and wise as a sage.

The HuntsMan was said to emerge from the desert after particularly violent conflicts to tend to the victims of bandit attacks, traveling without fear into lawless territories where lesser men would stir clear of. Whenever the taint of thieves and looters ailed the people of Vacuo, the HuntsMan would appear to patch up and heal what remained of the attacked caravans.

Rumor has it that it was actually this golden, enlightened saint that had persuaded the Arcs to avoid spilling the blood of innocents. His gentle words being able to reach the specs of goodness residing within the soul of even a dangerous criminal such as the Arc patriarch. Protecting the weak and helping the wounded without asking for a reward, the HuntsMan certainly sounded like a great man…

Pyrrha ignored the loud sneeze of one of the honorless desert jackals behind her. Her revenge on the Arcs could wait, finding the uncontested savior of Vacuo and beseeching him to heal her sick sister was the redhead's priority.

* * *

Jaune wiped his runny nose with the back of his sleeve, putting away his rolls of bandages after he finished wrapping the clean white cloth all over the injured leg of his new camel. _This ought to keep the nasty scratch from bleeding until we return home, _he thought to himself, receiving questioning looks from his exasperated sisters and an affectionate lick from the camel.

* * *

The End

* * *

**Notes: Another short story of fated meetings and possible interpretations of RWBY characters in AU settings. I came up with this story while contemplating what would happen if Jaune's family wasn't one of paladins and heroes, but infamous thieves. Jaune would still idolize his dad and ancestors, but instead of growing up with stories of righteous Huntsmen and Huntresses saving the world he would listen to tales of cunning schemes and burglaries. He would look around him and see the smiles on everyone's faces when his father returns home with loot and want to be a bandit. His village would prosper through the stolen goods that his family brings back and the Arcs would be dubbed heroes once again, but from a very different perspective than the canon Arcs. Jaune being soft-hearted and still green as a bandit would retrace his steps after a successful hit to patch up the wounded and guide them to the closest town, giving rise to the legend of the HuntsMan. **


End file.
